


i could fight you

by mooselady



Category: Assassin's Creed, Assassin's Creed Black Flag, Assassin's Creed: Black Flag
Genre: F/F, unleash the sass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 02:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5439866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mooselady/pseuds/mooselady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary is protective over Anne</p>
            </blockquote>





	i could fight you

**Author's Note:**

> [magpielady.tumblr.com](https://magpielady.tumblr.com/)

She was losing her patience.

Mary had extraordinary patience; so much so that she prided herself on it. She could wait, and listen, and plan an attack days before the initial bloodshed. She was heralded among the Assassin Order for being just that; clever and witty and sharp as any well-polished blade.

She was good at patience. That virtue was  _suppose_  to be her’s. 

All it took to wear her down was an Irish melody and a flash of red hair, and she found herself holding on too tightly to her bottle of whiskey, her heart fluttering almost as fast as her eyes, over and under and all over the body of the other woman.

“What do you say Kidd?”

Anne winked, turning on the sole of her foot over the tavern floor. She was close, and she was hovering over Mary, who was too overwhelmed to open her mouth to speak.

“Will you dance with me?”

Mary looked away.

“I don’t dance,” she mumbled.

She added quickly when Anne leaned closer, as if she hadn’t heard her, “I don’t dance in bars.”

Anne smiled, taking the whiskey bottle from Mary’s hand. She was watching her, aloof and knowing as she took a swig from it, making sure the pop of her mouth was audible enough to hear.

“Is it the bar, or is it me?” she asked, setting the alcohol back onto the table, her fingers trailing over it slowly. She was getting her attention this time.

Mary looked at those hands with a smirk. They were slender and long and she couldn’t help the passing daydream of what it would be like to have those hands grasping at the back of her head.

 _Trust me love_ , she thought,  _it is the bar I can’t agree with, not you._

Anne was waiting, eyes bright, a redness to her hair and skin and something else, something not visible to the eye but still all too mesmerizing to those who believed in sea sirens. Mary wanted to stand up, to be courteous and give her this dance, but with so many peering eyes it would be impossible to not draw attention. 

She was suppose to lay low after all. Sure, James Kidd could drink and swear and fight with as much ferocity as the rest of them. He could live up to the facade of being the son of William Kidd. He could even play the role of a woman if need be, but one misstep, one slip of the tongue and the safe net of this disguise would fall asunder just as quickly, an anchor plunged into the deep blue sea. 

Her voice was too cold when she spoke again.

“I  _don’t_  dance in bars, Anne.”

Mary regretted the ice of her words when Anne drew back, crossing her arms. Her eyes shone a gleam of disappointment before turning out of sight. Mary watched as she weaved in and out of the crowd until disappearing from the tavern.

The room reeked of alcohol and foul mouths, but it felt all too silent to her without the other woman’s presence. Mary couldn’t take another drink of the whiskey.

Instead, she tapped against the glass in one of her melodies, drowning out the din of the shouts and swears. Tracing her finger over the top of the bottle, she could feel the wet stickiness where Anne’s mouth had been. 

No one noticed when she absently raised her fingertip to her own mouth, tasting the still warm memory of the redhead.

“I’d fuck her.”

Mary jerked at the sentence, feeling the blood drain from her face. The men at the table beside her were huddled close, hunched and snickering and swapping sodden stories with yellowed, ill teeth.

“You get that pretty Irish lass alone, and then do as you like.”

“She would fuck like a real howler, she would.”

Mary didn’t hesitate. This was what the Order had taught her. This was how she was trained and pushed and battered until she had learned her lessons well. She knew it, it spoke like red hot coals in her mind: You take your rage, restrain your fury, then condense it into something very refined, and very,  _very_  precise.

It was all too swift for them to react, at the way she cracked her whiskey bottle over the edge of the table and lunged forward, the jagged edges of glass finding their way to his throat.

“No one touches Miss Bonny,” Kidd hissed above that deadly singe.

The bar went quiet. Chanting and hollering could be heard from the nighttime streets, but here, in this very tavern, the air went still while men of salt and brine took uneasy steps to and fro.

The man looked from the glass at his neck, then to James, swallowing, “You can’t blame a fellow sailor, Kidd. We all agree Jack was a fool for bringing a woman on board.”

“Is bad luck, that is,” another voice piped up. The crowd agreed, nodding and murmuring among themselves.

“I don’t give a damn about your superstition,” James seethed. He drew back, controlling his movements with the gaze of a creature to be feared. “This is a warning to all you sea rats. No one gets to Anne Bonny except through me.”

A mumble from the table spoke low, “Jack ain’t gonna like that…”

“He ain’t gonna like anyone touchin’ his woman either,” James shot back. The words simmered with fury, yet still left an uncomfortable ring to her ears, causing her to dig her nails into her palms. 

Anne wasn’t cargo. Pieces of silver and gold could not sing, nor dance, like her. Fire and flesh and song, that was her livelihood and it only made Mary lose more of that patience to realize how important she had become to her.

Everyone suddenly felt like an enemy, and the air of this place was becoming too sick for her to stand any longer.

An army should have been glad they were not facing James Kidd at this moment as he stalked briskly away from the bar and into the nighttime.

She didn’t have to search for long. She stooped to pick up a lone poppy, red amidst the green underbrush. Following her way to the beach, she could see her, pacing back and forth, going into the foam of the shore, then back unto the safety of land. 

“Love, don’t cry no more, take me to the sea,” she sang to the milky moon. “Angels and devils, they all look the same to me.”

“I haven’t heard that one,” James spoke up, sauntering over the sand, the crimson flower still in his hand.

Anne startled, turning to face him. The beer bottle in her hand sloshed, spilling its contents over the ground. 

“Well, that’s because I made it up,” she spoke with a slur. She placed the bottle to her lips, only to find it empty, so she sighed and began drifting to the water’s edge, setting the bottle into a curve of sand.

Mary couldn’t look away from the skin of her shoulder, soft and bare in the moonlight. 

It was calm here, and this time, Anne wasn’t gliding or twirling or moving like the tide. Mary watched her shadow collide into Anne’s, who was pacing to and fro again. Carefully, she tucked the fallen poppy into the collar of her shirt, keeping it safe and close to her heart. 

Sailors would sing songs about a woman like her, and Mary couldn’t stop the surge of fear as she blurted out, “You’ve got to protect yourself out here.”

The shift of her dress halted immediately. 

Anne’s eyes were swimming, her body swaying when she pushed her index finger against Mary’s bony chest.

“Don’t coddle me, sir. You’re still only a boy-” she laughed, “-and thin as a bowstring.” She was humoring herself in this drunken temper. “You’ve a sharp tongue, Kidd, but mine’s sharper.”

With a satisfied smirk, the redhead turned, stumbling over a mound of sand as she walked away.

Mary rolled her eyes, glancing at the moon before catching up. “You can’t just wander off. These men, they aren’t gentlemen. They aren’t looking for chivalry-”

“Oh! And I suppose you believe yourself to be a  _better_  man than them…than all o’ ‘em…”

She picked up pace, saying with sarcastic bite, “I can take care of myself, _Gentleman_ James Kidd.”

“Could you fight?” he interjected, stepping over a washed-up tree limb. “Do you _know_  how to fight?”

This only stirred the fire in Anne’s gut more, as if she was being prodded by a pronged iron. 

“I could fight you,” she sneered. 

Mary couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her throat. 

“I don’t fight drunken women,” she retorted, clearly amused.

Anne turned without another word, storming off to the opposite end of the beach. Mary turned as well, keeping distance this time. 

“I can teach you how to fight,” she offered, trying to stay light of heart.

This grabbed Anne’s attention. She halted, tilting her head to eye the mystery in front of her. 

He knew how to fight, but she had never considered him as a teacher before, only as an enigma with those charcoal eyes and hidden smiles.

“Alright, Gentleman Kidd.”

She curtsied, then straightened herself with a mischievous grin.

“Teach me how to fight, and I’ll teach you how to dance.”

Mary scoffed, looking away, matching that playful smile. 

It was that smile that caused Anne to reach out, joining their hands. “You can dance with me now,” she entreated. 

James only moved away, hoping to keep up the jovial spirit. “I don’t know how to dance. My mother never felt it was something I needed to learn.”

Anne nodded, speaking gently, “Someday, then. Let me know.”

She reached up to plant a kiss on her cheek, right at the end of her scar. 

In the moment, Mary wanted to forget about it all; she wanted to spill her secrets like freshly culled blood over the sand, she wanted to forget the Order, her responsibility, her promises and patience and every stowed away letter she ever kept from her mother who’s memory was becoming washed away with each passing sunset. She’d been out at sea for so long that she truly believed the only warmth she’d ever feel would be the burn of brandy down her throat, bottle after black bottle. Steal, drink, curse, and repeat. 

She was gentle when she cupped Anne’s face into her hands, bringing her into a kiss. 

The touch lasted for a moment, soft and unsure until Anne parted her mouth, drawing in a deep breath, pressing her mouth closer. Their mouths tasted of beer and whiskey, every parted kiss only to be rekindled by another. Mary damned her patience when she felt Anne’s hands press against the back of her neck in every attempt to bring her down to her height.

A hurried rush of hot breath and fervent kisses led to Anne grasping at the tail end of Mary’s shirt, tugging and pulling. Mary broke apart, unable to break her gaze away from the red raw of the other woman’s lips as she whispered, “We can’t do this. Not here.”

“Then let’s go somewhere,” Anne urged, grasping at her coat collar. “Just me and you.”

Mary tensed, feeling the cold prickle of sweat on her neck as she looked up at the top of the hill to see the lights of the tavern. Releasing her hold on the other woman’s waist, she breathed, “I can’t. Not right now.”

They broke apart, their hands still lingering with the memory of the other’s touch.

“You are one mystery after another,” Anne spoke with a shake of her head.

She turned, pulling at Kidd’s hand lightly to follow her.

“But you’ll tell me your secrets soon enough Kidd. I’m  _not_  a patient woman.”

Mary Read closed her eyes with a smile, the taste of that kiss fresh and still waning under this moon. She reached into her shirt, pulling out the red flower, warm from the heated pulse of her heart. 

She ran her thumb over the petals, humming, “These days, neither am I.”


End file.
